In a glade where shadows stretch, the sylph sings
notes like droplets on dewy grass—tentative, real.
The air is thick with nature's breath, a chorus woven from thoughts, whispers, left unspoken.
notes like droplets on dewy grass—tentative, real.
The air is thick with nature's breath, a chorus woven from thoughts, whispers, left unspoken.
"Listen close, and you might just hear it," she murmurs,
her voice the gentle rustle of leaves, longing.
It’s a song spun from the loom of stars and silence,
a melody tender as twilight's embrace.
her voice the gentle rustle of leaves, longing.
It’s a song spun from the loom of stars and silence,
a melody tender as twilight's embrace.
Between heartbeats, where time dares pause,
every word hangs like an open sky—boundless,
yet tethered to the roots of the earth,
her song is a tapestry woven from silence.
every word hangs like an open sky—boundless,
yet tethered to the roots of the earth,
her song is a tapestry woven from silence.
And for those willing to chase the wind: